“Chasing the Echoes of Home: A Journey Through Memory and Migration”
I tried the phone every fifteen minutes or less for the rest of the night, but to no avail.
At sunrise, Colin left the apartment. He returned mid-morning with a bag of pita rounds and two tiny cups of steaming coffee. His jeans and white Adidas tennis shoes were smeared with soot.
We spent the rest of the day watching the chaos below. By noon, all the Groovy’s merchandise—jeans, funky skirts and sweat tops, the newest fashions from Paris and London—had been burned or looted. The shop was charred black. The sun glinted on a couple of metal hangers sticking out from the piles of broken glass.
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